More Than the Sand on the Beaches
by Yessica-N
Summary: There is probably another universe where they did not have each other. A universe where there was a river and a basket and a child all by themselves. This is not that universe. Or: drabbles about a lazy father raising his peculiar son.
1. Hide and seek

**Sometimes you just need to be able to write cute baby Snufkin and trying-his-best cat dad Joxter. I'm taking requests for these, by the way!**

* * *

His son is a terrible hider.

Joxter would almost think it to be disconcerting if it wasn't so obviously part of the game. He closes his eyes again dutifully and counts to ten, out loud because Snufkin had demanded it so.

He goes slowly too, taking his time on every count. He is facing the tree, but his hands are covering his eyes all the same. Also part of the game.

"Ten-" He calls, loudly and clearly and even then he takes another second to drop his arms, the sun too bright for comfort. He blinks rapidly, adjusting to the light for a moment before turning around.

He spots his son almost immediately, crouched underneath a nearby bush and staring at him with big, round eyes. Joxter dutifully pretends not to notice him, letting his gaze sweep right over the bush and to the other surroundings instead, pretending to be genuinely confused.

"Dear me, I do wonder where he could have gone?" He says, rather unnecessarily and he can just catch Snufkin trying hard not to start giggling, his small hands coming up to stop the sound from slipping out.

The Joxter walks around a bit, purely for appearance's sake, of course, even lifting a few branches and large leaves as if the child would be small enough to conceal himself underneath them. He hums and mutters to himself and just generally makes an entire spectacle, all the while keeping himself from laughing.

The stage lost a fine actor the day he decided to become a full-time layabout.

After a few minutes of fruitless searching, he puts his hands on his hips and sighs, facing away from the bush. "Well, I guess he will turn up on his own eventually."

And then he sits back against the tree and closes his eyes because the afternoon sun is ever so warm and he could definitely do with some rest.

It only takes a few minutes for an angry Snufkin to pounce on top of him, nearly knocking the air out of his lungs, tiny claws digging into his chest angrily. "Pappa," He whines, trying to shake him awake but the Joxter is relentless in keeping up the charade of sleeping.

A very fine actor indeed.

"Pappa," Snufkin puts his full weight on top of his father, which isn't very much really. "Wake up! You're supposed to be searching for me."

"Was I?" Joxter asks while putting his hat over his face to keep the sun from his eyes. "You kept hiding over and over again, I just assumed you didn't want to be found."

Snufkin huffs, face scrunched up in indignation, pouting just the smallest amount. He lifts the rim of the Joxter's hat up just to frown at him. "It's a game."

"Joy."

With another low whine, the boy sprawls on top of him, tail wagging slowly from side to side and chin resting on his father's chest. Joxter picks him up by the back of his shirt and places him on the ground beside him, tucking him under one arm and curling around him.

"I know a different game." He says. "It's a lot of fun."

Snufkin fusses for a few seconds before growing still again and watching him expectantly.

"I count to ten again," He pats the boy's unruly hair. "And when I get there you have fallen asleep and so have I."

"That's just taking a nap," Snufkin says slowly.

Joxter smiles. "Is it? Well, let's do that then."

The boy seems to consider it for a moment, playing with the hem of his sleeves. Then he leans back against his father in agreement. "Will you sing me a song then?"

"Whichever one you like."

"All small beasts should have bows in their tales?" Snufkin decides, rather predictably. It is his favorite after all.

"What a wonderful choice," Joxter concedes. "Just remember to try hard to fall asleep by the end."

Snufkin nods eagerly, pinching his eyes closed obediently and lying perfectly still. The Joxter laughs quietly, poking his son in the side. "Not that hard."

He sings the first verse, voice soft and soothing and the birds twitter along in tune to the music. Snufkin slowly relaxes against him and by the time they get around to the chorus he is fast asleep. Joxter finishes the song, because it is bad luck not to and it wouldn't do for either of them to end up in Hemulen jail.

Then he lays his chin atop Snufkin's hair, warmed by the sun and hours spent outside, and sleeps too.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


	2. Prey

**I know I said cute, but some Angst slipped in anyway. Whoops. Requested by Ze.**

* * *

Snufkin always had been a fast learner. The Joxter discovered this to his own detriment.

His son had already started walking before his first birthday and was quick about developing a wearisome proficiency at wandering away unnoticed whenever his parents took their eyes off the boy for even the shortest moment, though he had to admit perhaps it was his own blood to blame for this more than the Mymble's.

Those first few years were plagued with a lot more anxieties than Joxter ever liked to indulge in, and once or twice he had come dangerously close to losing Snufkin altogether, even if he'd be hard-pressed to admit to it afterward. They were times he didn't relish looking back on.

"You need to slow down, little one," He had sighed back then, cradling the tiny thing that was his son in both arms, just to assure himself nothing terrible had happened. "You are making your old father work way too hard, you know?"

Snufkin had merely tilted his head to the side, uncomprehending of the Joxter's words or the panic he had caused. They had taken the long way home, past the orchid, and Snufkin sat on his shoulders to pick the apples from the trees.

It felt like ages ago, but it probably was only a handful of years at best.

"You need to be faster," The Joxter said now, laughing at the serious expression on his son's face. "These critters are small, but they will not willingly become our dinner."

Snufkin huffed in a quiet, dignified manner. The way he bit his lip in concentration, brows furrowed tight and eyes squinting as if that would somehow aid him in seeing his prey better, was quite adorable Joxter thought.

It was always fun to watch somebody try too hard at something, seeing as he himself always did things effortlessly or not at all.

"It's quite alright if it doesn't work out," He hummed, crossing one leg underneath his knee and leaning an elbow on top. "One can not be good at everything all at once."

Snufkin did not seem to accept this meager compensation for his efforts though, still crouched close to the ground. There were various alive things skittering in the underbrush, but so far all of them had been able to avoid his claws.

As if pulled by an invisible string he sprung forward, hands cupped around something. Joxter raised an eyebrow, but predictably enough when Snufkin tentatively opened them there was nothing caught in his grasp. His shoulders sagged just slightly then and the Joxter quickly slid over, patting the boy's head.

"Maybe you're trying a bit too hard," He said quickly. "It's quite an instinctive thing. You'll grow into it."

Snufkin crawled into his lap dejectedly, resting his chin on the Joxter's shoulder. "But I want to do it now." He murmured, and his father could practically hear the impatience in his voice. That was definitely more of a Mymble thing, wasn't it? He hummed, one hand cupped against the boy's back to keep him from toppling over.

"When did you first do it?" Snufkin asked suddenly, leaning back to look up at him and predictably almost falling back in the process. "Catch something, I mean."

The Joxter didn't respond, mind elsewhere for a moment, only barely able to stop the grimace from showing on his face. He shook his head. "A very long time ago, so much so that I really hardly remember," He lied, adding with a smile, "But that's probably just because I'm old, isn't it?"

They sat in silence for a bit, the texture of Snufkin's tunic soft against his fingers and hair tickling the side of his cheek as the child rested against his shoulder once more. He hadn't thought about it in a long time, really. It was funny how quickly he used to forget those things, and how quickly he recalled them now that he had a little one of his own.

"Maybe if we ask very nicely your mother will feed us instead," He mused out loud, making to get up. "She has never been able to say no to you before, has she?"

But Snufkin didn't respond, claws digging into the front of the Joxter's coat, tail unmoving and eyes trained on something behind them. His body had gone oddly rigid and concern was just creeping up the back of his throat when his son jumped out of his arms with surprising agility.

"Wha-" The rest of his protest was overturned by a high-pitched squeaking noise that got cut of just as suddenly. He turned around, just in time to see Snufkin drop the mouse from his mouth again.

He stared up at the Joxter with wide eyes and for a moment seemed unsure if he was about to cry or not. Joxter had called it an instinctive thing earlier, of course, so it wasn't exactly unexpected. Then again-

He kneeled down, wiping the blood from Snufkin's chin. "Maybe use your claws next time."

And in that moment he could tell what they saw when they used to look at him, nodding their heads in approval. Something nauseating curling in the pit of his stomach.

"I won't do it again," Snufkin said, voice slightly shaky but with the kind of resolve that didn't leave any room for argument. "I didn't like it."

The Joxter really hoped he didn't look too pleased then.

"Perhaps that is for the best," He picked Snufkin up as he stood again, leaving the mouse where it had fallen limp and lifeless, dark blood staining the earth. "Though I am very impressed, for it was really something you did there. Then again, you have learned from the best. But now the sky darkens, so we should really head back home."

And the entire way, Joxter did his best to ignore the prideful feeling in the back of his mind or the slight trembling of his son in his arms.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


	3. Rain

**And even more details regarding my headcanon for Joxter's childhood. Also requesed by Ze.**

* * *

Joxter doesn't like it when it rains.

Or well, it's not the rain he doesn't like. Fickle weather can be beautiful in its own way, and he quite enjoys how the wind bends the trees beneath its force, or the lightning holds the sky in its grasp.

However, and perhaps more importantly, Joxter does not like getting soaked, which rain is prone to do to him despite his wide-brimmed hat or his skyward curses. The only real solution to that is finding shelter, or he'd have to resign to trodding around in damp clothes that don't properly dry for days while he's out on the road.

When he was younger and more foolish perhaps he would have done so. Now it isn't just himself he has to consider.

He is quite fortunate at least in having found a semi-permanent accommodation, a house (though never a home to the Joxter) that welcomes him back at a whim no matter how long he was gone for. The Mymble loves him more than he deserves after all. Still, he can't help sitting at the windowsill, the coldness of the downpour creeping in just a little through the glass, and staring forlornly out at the darkness beyond.

She knows not to fuzz over him needlessly, though he likes her affections otherwise. Plenty of children run around the rooms to keep her busy, their hurried footsteps and playful shouts an ever insistent background noise to his sulking. Joxter sighs dramatically and crosses his arms for good measure. Times like these make him almost melancholic, though he's hard-pressed to admit it. Nostalgic in a way he usually isn't, because there is nothing heartwarming to look back on. But it creeps in, bit by bit, and settles in his heart nonetheless.

He remembers it vaguely, like a dream that you keep having every other week or so, refusing to stick properly but stubborn enough in its efforts not to fade completely. It has been so very long yet somehow not long enough to forget, the feel of a warm body wrapped around him, sharp claws digging into his shoulder and the beating of hearts in the darkness.

"Papa?" Snufkin says, his back against the Joxter's chest and legs pulled up close to keep warm. He had been so lost in thought he hadn't even noticed the little one crawl into his lap. Memories did strange things to him sometimes.

He curls up a little, Snufkin still small enough to fit comfortably at this age and Joxter relishes it because he knows it won't always be like this. "What is it?"

"Does the rain make you sad?"

Joxter laughs softly, one hand on the windowsill to keep from tumbling off and it's strange, how happy such innocence could make him. He had never pegged himself as making a good parent, had felt the pull of running away from this responsibility like he had done with so many others, but now that he had made the choice it was remarkable how thoroughly he could enjoy it.

It felt like making something right.

"Not at all," He answers, brushing some of the hair out of his face, "The rain is what makes nature so wondrous of course. It would be silly to be sad about bad weather."

Snufkin tilts his head to the side, seeming to think this statement over. Joxter always found his son liked to think about things way more than he himself ever did, but he couldn't say it didn't amuse him.

"Wondrous things can't make you sad?"

He sits up quickly then. Snufkin turns around in his lap and his legs dig into Joxter's stomach, kind of knocking the air out of him but Joxter doesn't mind. "Well, I guess they can-" He admits. "I never thought about it that way. You're smarter than me, little one."

Snufkin shakes his head, the look on his face as serious as a child his age can make it as he pushes his hands against his father's chest.

"No?" Joxter enquires. "You think not?"

Snufkin hesitates, but only for a moment. "Because you're old." He confesses eventually, and the absolute conviction in those words makes Joxter laugh again. "Old people know things."

"Oh, right," He says, "Certainly wisdom comes with age."

"I don't know about wisdom," Snufkin answers, quietly like a whisper, "But all the other stuff too."

"What other stuff?"

"Grown up stuff," Snufkin looks out the window but it's still too dark to see much more than their own reflection and the droplets of rain stuck to the glass, racing each other down. "Smoking pipes and pulling out signs and not having to stay indoors when it rains."

Joxter decides not to point out the lapse in his son's logic regarding that last one, but huffs under his breathe and pats the boy's head. "I hear that you are quite set on inheriting all my worst traits," And as he says it he can taste the bile in the back of his throat, the blood on his teeth, but stubbornly ignores it. "I'm sure your mother will be very pleased to hear."

Snufkin doesn't answer, eyes fixed outside and pupils dilated to little slits to see the barest of shapes in the darkness.

"Speaking of your mother," Joxter begins, successfully pulling attention back to himself, "I'm sure she would appreciate you spending some time with her, or your siblings for that matter. They hardly ever see you."

His son makes that face he usually only makes when his father forces him to eat his vegetables (not something that happens often) and it pulls another light chuckle out of him.

"I don't know." Snufkin mumbles, laying down on him, arms tucked in against himself and hair brushing just short of his father's chin. "They're nice but they're..." The words trail off into silence, though Joxter already understands. "I rather be alone. Or with you."

All of his worst habits. Just not the very worst ones, he hopes.

"The sky is already clearing," He lies, wrapping one arm around Snufkin to keep him warm. "Come morning surely we will be able to set off again."

"How can you tell?" Snufkin asks, the words slightly muffled by him trying to stifle a yawn.

"Because I'm old, of course, and old people know things. You said so yourself."

He adjust his position slightly, making sure the child can lay comfortably against him, and goes back to staring out the window. Joxter doesn't like it when it rains, sure.

But he doesn't hate it like he used to.

* * *

**Tumblr: sharada-n**


End file.
